249. A visit to "BoShanKo": Part 4: Kali and Meghanad

 (ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.) 

Our stay in Kolkata was coming to an end. Whenever I am in Kolkata, a visit to Dakshineshwar Temple and Belur Math is a must for me. We had planned to visit both on the last day of our trip. However, due to time constraints, Belur Math had to be dropped from the itinerary.

I remember visiting Dakshineshwar sometime around 1985. Strangely, what I remember most from that visit is a priest sitting inside one of the Shiva temples and reading a newspaper. I don't remember the temple being particularly large, nor do I remember any queues or crowds. This time, however, as we entered the temple complex, I realised how spacious it actually was. Clearly, my memory of the earlier visit wasn't very reliable.

A part of the main temple as seen from outside

                                

We reached Dakshineshwar around 2.30 in the afternoon, only to discover that the temple would reopen only at 3 p.m. We had no idea that it remained closed for a while in the afternoon. So we walked down to the ghat and sat there for some time.

The Ganga was only moderately clean—as expected.

No matter how polluted the water is, the presence of the Ganga is always comforting. There was a gentle breeze. Across the river, Kolkata stretched along the opposite bank. A bridge in the distance. People taking a holy dip. Children and women searching for coins thrown into the river by devotees. Vendors selling small plastic bottles for those wanting to carry Ganga water home.

On the banks of Hooghly (Ganga) river

And through all this, without being bothered by people, the river flowed quietly.

Watching its broad and unhurried flow, I was reminded once again of how temporary our joys and sorrows really are. The ancient bond between our rivers and our people has survived the passage of time. Sitting on the banks of the Ganga, I could still feel it within me.

A lady overheard Pratiksha and me speaking in Marathi and started talking to us. Since she was speaking in Marathi too, I assumed she was another tourist from Maharashtra.

She wasn't.

She worked with the cooperative credit society of a paramilitary force. ("Bank" was the word she used. I had never heard of such a bank before. Later, when I searched online, I realised that it was not a public sector bank but an internal cooperative society for the personnel of that force.) Her husband too was a senior officer in the same force. They had been in Kolkata for the last seven years, and she visited Dakshineshwar regularly. She volunteered a lot of personal information without my asking. It seems that when people meet someone speaking their own language far away from home, they instinctively open up.

She stayed with us, explaining where to leave our footwear, where to deposit our bags, and how the queue system worked. She told us that there were three queues leading to the sanctum, and that the middle queue offered the best view of the deity. We joined that queue with her.

For the next two-and-a-half hours, we stood together and chatted.

From our conversation, I gathered that she belonged to a Kannada-Marathi Brahmin family. She was a strict vegetarian and couldn't quite understand the Bengali love for fish. "It's dirty everywhere," she said repeatedly. There was a note of complaint in much of what she said. 

Dakshineshwar Kali Temple

The temple was peaceful. As the afternoon wore on, the breeze from the Ganga became even more pleasant. People stood quietly in the queues. Since mobile phones had to be deposited outside, there were no reels, no phone calls, no selfies. The queue moved very slowly, but no one seemed impatient.

Dakshineshwar Kali Temple occupies a special place in the lives of Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and Swami Vivekananda. It was founded by Rani Rashmoni, a wealthy zamindar from Janbazar. Since she belonged to a community that was considered socially inferior by the standards of nineteenth-century Bengal, there was considerable opposition to the temple. Many believed that upper-caste Brahmins would refuse to perform worship in a temple built by her. Ignoring these objections, Rani Rashmoni completed the temple in 1855. Sri Ramakrishna later became its chief priest, and the rest, as they say, is history.

The temple is a fine example of Bengal's traditional Navaratna style of temple architecture, with its nine spires rising above a high plinth. The main temple stands in front of a large courtyard. Along the ghat on the Hooghly are twelve identical Shiva temples built in a single row. These smaller temples follow the traditional Atchala style of Bengal architecture. Built with red bricks and white lime plaster, the complex has an unusual combination of simplicity and grandeur.

Pratiksha, who is an architect, had carried a small sketchbook and a pen in my sling bag. Standing in the queue, she took them out and began sketching the temple. Her sketch will give you a better idea of the temple's exterior than any description I can write.

Pratiksha's sketch of the main temple, drawn while standing in the queue

Two young foreigners were standing ahead of me in the queue. One was from the United States and the other from Greece. The American had been living at Sri Ramana Maharshi's Ashram in Tiruvannamalai for the last few years. Since I had visited the ashram a few years ago, we naturally exchanged memories. From there the conversation wandered to Puducherry, Kanyakumari, Varanasi, Allahabad, Rameswaram and several other places. I came away with the impression that the American knew more about India's pilgrimage centres than I did. This was the Greek visitor's first trip to India, and the American seemed to be playing the role of his guide. Both of them quietly absorbed the atmosphere of the temple.

After standing in the queue for nearly two and a half hours, we finally had our one-minute darshan of Kali and came out.

It is difficult to describe that moment in words.

I am not a particularly religious person. Yet I stood happily in that queue for nearly three hours. I realised that I do not visit temples merely to see an idol or even a deity. For me, darshan is something much larger. It is a moment of connecting with the cultural memory that has accumulated at such places over hundreds of years. The journey is really for that one brief moment of connection.

Perhaps that is why it remains beyond words. 

The second half of the day was reserved for a performance of Meghnad Badh Kavya. We left Dakshineshwar and headed towards Girish Manch. It was a journey from the world of religion to the world of theatre.

Girish Manch

Located in the historic neighbourhood of Baghbazar, Girish Manch is one of the important centres of Bengali theatre. The auditorium is named after Girish Chandra Ghosh, the celebrated playwright, actor and director who is regarded as one of the pioneers of modern Bengali theatre. I was pleased to learn that this Girish was none other than the disciple of Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa. Somehow, it made the journey from Dakshineshwar to Girish Manch feel even more meaningful. The auditorium hosts both commercial and experimental theatre.

Girish Chandra Ghosh was once an atheist and struggled with alcoholism. His life changed completely after he came into contact with Sri Ramakrishna. Sri Sri Ramakrishna Kathamrita, written by Mahendranath Gupta under the pen name 'M', beautifully captures the relationship between the two. Girish Chandra wrote and staged several memorable plays, including Buddhadev Charit, Bilwamangal and Tapasya. He was also very close to Swami Vivekananda.

Seen in this context, travelling from Dakshineshwar to Girish Manch did not feel like moving from a religious space to a secular one. It felt like continuing the same cultural journey.

Meghnad Badh Kavya and Gautam Halder

We had come to Girish Manch to watch a stage adaptation of Meghnad Badh Kavya, the epic poem written by Michael Madhusudan Dutt (1824–1873). Published in 1861, the poem is more than 150 years old. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that tickets priced at ₹1,000 had sold out almost immediately for a performance based on such a classic work. Fortunately our friends had booked our tickets in advance.In the auditorium two persons were arguing loudly. It turned out that the theatre had issued the same seat number to both of them. There was some animated discussion before other people intervened to find  alternative seat for one of them. Order was restored within a few minutes, and the performance began. This little experience reminded me of my own city. 

The performance was presented by Gautam Halder, one of Bengal's most respected theatre personalities. Born in 1963, he is an actor, director, singer and dancer. Over the last three decades, he has performed Meghnad Badh Kavya hundreds of times, both in India and abroad.

The production is almost a one-man performance. A few musicians and singers sat on the stage, providing music and chorus. But for nearly two-and-a-half hours, the stage belonged entirely to Gautam Halder.

The performance was in Bengali. I asked the lady sitting next to me to explain the story whenever possible. That was when I realised that even she found the language difficult. The poem is written in classical Bengali, which is quite different from the language spoken today. She confidently told me that the opening scene described the death of Meghnad. In reality, Meghnad's death came much later in the performance. The story was not easy to follow at first, but gradually it began to unfold.

Meghnad Badh Kavya is regarded as one of the milestones of Bengali literature. Though based on the Ramayana, it offers a completely different perspective. Madhusudan Dutt portrays Ravana as a noble, dignified and unfortunate king, while Meghnad (Indrajit) emerges as a heroic warrior who sacrifices his life for his country. At the same time, the poet also points out the moral limitations and mistakes of Rama and Lakshmana. Divided into nine cantos, the poem is remarkable for its powerful blend of heroism, tragedy and fury. It was also the first successful use of blank verse in Bengali literature, freeing Bengali poetry from the constraints of rhyme. The language of the poem is highly Sanskritised, grand and classical.

Gautam Halder's physical and vocal performance was extraordinary. Without changing costumes and using nothing more than a simple uttariya draped over his shoulders, he transformed himself from one character to another within seconds. One moment he was the fierce Ravana; the next, the grief-stricken Mandodari or the devoted Pramila.

Fear, anger, sorrow, joy, love, hatred, contempt and serenity—he expressed every emotion with equal conviction. Ravana, Mandodari, Sita, Lakshmana, Meghnad, Vibhishana and Rama all came alive through his performance. In one scene, his eyes and body conveyed the violence and intensity of war; in the next, a slight bend of his shoulders captured Ravana's defeat and helplessness.

I did not understand every word of Bengali. But the language of great acting needs no translation.

I thoroughly enjoyed the performance.

*********

It was time to leave BoShanKo.

The mud house in Bolpur. Tagore's Santiniketan. The history of Kolkata. The devotion at Dakshineshwar. Meghnad coming alive on stage.

Over these eight days, I saw many shades of Bengal. Like the Ganga, Bengal too has many invisible currents. I could understand some of them. Some I merely sensed.

I had come as a visitor. Sitting quietly in Bengal's courtyard and listening to its stories, I had, for a little while, become a part of it. 

248. A visit to "BoShanKo": Part 3: Old Kolkata

(ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.)

Finally, our stay in Bolpur came to an end and we started towards Kolkata. This journey was by train. We went to a railway station called “Prantik.” A small station. Just three or four platforms.

Prantik Railway Station

There was hardly any crowd. While looking for the meaning of the name “Prantik,” I realized that it is the title of one of Rabindranath Tagore’s poetry collections. For those coming by train, Prantik is close to Shantiniketan. In a way, it is like a gateway to Shantiniketan.

These days trains are often late, and ours was about two hours late as well. In Bolpur, with so many food options around, I had somehow missed eating jhalmuri. I wasn’t even hungry, but just for the sake of it, I finally had jhalmuri on the train.

A short visit

Debahuti had come to receive us at Howrah station. What I really liked about the station was that at some platforms, cars can come right up to the platform. Seeing a wide road between two platforms was quite interesting.

Howrah Junction

We stepped out of the station. Instead of going home directly, we decided to take a short round. Very soon, the usual traffic of a big city (like any other large city) became visible. We went towards the Hooghly river. We spent some quiet time at the ghat. The wide stretch of water in front, the gentle movement of the waves, and behind it the grand Hooghly bridge. From a little distance, we could also see the famous Howrah Bridge, and it somehow confirmed that we had truly arrived in Kolkata.

the Famous Howrah Bridge

A local train thundered past on the tracks right next to the ghat. We all stopped talking and watched it like children.

There were some large idols floating in the river. When I asked about them, I learned for the first time about Saraswati Puja here. For me, Bengal was always associated with Durga Puja. I didn’t know much about Saraswati Puja. On the day of Vasant Panchami, Saraswati is worshipped in homes as well as publicly. For children, it is considered the beginning of their education—the day they learn their first letters. In schools and colleges too, books are worshipped. The public idols are large and kept in big pandals. It feels like both Durga and Saraswati traditions come together in Bengal’s culture.

While returning from the ghat, we could see the Vidhan Bhavan and the Akashvani building in the distance. We ended this short outing by eating Kolkata’s famous roll—hot, spicy, and very tasty.

Old Kolkata

Kolkata—a city with a rich cultural and historical tradition. Even if you stay for a month, there will still be many things left to see. I had only two days. It is possible to see many places quickly, but that kind of rushed tourism does not make sense to me. Before coming here, I had long discussions with Debahuti and Anasua. Based on that, we decided to spend half a day in old Kolkata (North Kolkata).

Subirda was our driver. He had worked in a mill in Solapur for three years, so he happily tried speaking to us in broken Marathi. When I first heard the guide’s name, I couldn’t understand it—“Jogobondho.” Then I realized it was “Jagabandhu.” Within the first ten minutes itself, it became clear that the two had very different ideological leanings—especially from their discussion on a sensitive topic like SIR (Special Intensive Revision). Also, one supported Mohun Bagan and the other East Bengal football club.

While moving around Kolkata, we passed by roads near many stadiums—Eden Gardens, Salt Lake Stadium, Netaji Stadium. Kolkata’s love for sports is a separate subject altogether.

Our first stop in old Kolkata was Swami Vivekananda’s house.

Swami Vivekananda's home

Swamiji was born here on 12 January 1863. This house had fallen into disrepair, but in 1962 the Ramakrishna Mission took it over and restored it. Now it has a museum, a research centre, a language centre, and a computer training centre. Since we reached early, we couldn’t visit the museum. In an open space, three children were practicing dance under the guidance of two adults.

In a small lane near Vivekananda’s house is the home of the famous singer Manna Dey.

At the entrance of the lane

Visiters cannot enter the house, but when the current resident came to know that we were from Maharashtra, he opened a large window of one room for us. Inside, there was a photograph of Manna Dey and his awards and memorabilia, neatly kept. Jagabandhu also told us that Mirza Ghalib had lived for a year in a building in this area.

Many houses in this locality have small temples of Kali and Jagannath (Puri). These have been preserved by families for generations. During festivals like Kali Puja and Rath Yatra, these small temples become very important. Jagabandhu mentioned that one Kali idol here was originally made for Dakshineswar temple but was not liked by Rani Rashmoni, and so it is now in a household temple here. However, I could not find any reference to this later. This area is also known for its sweet shops, but we did not stop there. So much history in just one locality!

While walking here, I finally saw the Kolkata tram.

Kolkata Tram

Started in 1873, it is the oldest tram system in Asia. Initially, trams were pulled by horses. They became electric in 1902. I remembered travelling by this tram during my Kolkata visit in 1984–85. Because of slow speed, traffic issues, and newer transport options, trams are now fewer. Earlier they ran on more than fifty routes; now only about three routes remain.

Kolkata Metro, started in 1984, is the oldest metro in India. The earlier metro was underground. Now the network has expanded to five lines and around sixty stations. There are both underground and elevated routes. Some station names were confusing for me. For example, Ritwik Ghatak, Kavi Subhash, Geetanjali, Satyajit Ray. These names are undoubtedly great, but for a newcomer, it becomes difficult to understand exactly which part of the city one is in.

Kolkata has many transport options. Some old ones are still in use, and that was interesting to see.

Later, on College Street, saw it with passengers!

This part of Kolkata still retains its old character—and that is what makes it feel alive. Narrow streets, old buildings, people leaving their slippers aside to pray on the roadside, men bathing at public taps, fresh vegetables and bargaining customers, posters of the upcoming assembly elections, people of all ages walking or cycling, others carrying bags and walking slowly…

Jorasanko Thakur Bari

“Jora” means pair, “sanko” means a bamboo bridge. It is believed that there were two parallel bamboo bridges over a stream here, hence the name Jorasanko. Others say there were two Shiva temples here. “Bari” means house—so this is the Tagore family house in Jorasanko.

This is the ancestral home of the Tagore family, built in 1784 by Nilmoni Tagore. It is not just a house—it is a huge mansion.

Entrance of Thakur Bari

Dwarkanath Tagore expanded it. Rabindranath Tagore was born here on 7 May 1861. He spent his childhood in this building. He wrote many poems here. He also passed away here on 7 August 1941.

Since 1961, one part of this building houses the 'Rabindra Bharati Museum'. There are more than fifty galleries. One gallery presents the history of the Tagore family—important phases in the lives of Dwarkanath and Debendranath Tagore, their work, and documents from that time. It gives a glimpse of how an influential, educated, and wealthy family in 19th-century Bengal lived.

Another gallery is about Rabindranath’s life. It displays his clothes, caps, pens, spectacles, watch, footwear, and many such objects. There are handwritten copies of his famous poems and songs. The words he struck out and the drawings he made from them are interesting. There is correspondence with Mahatma Gandhi, Albert Einstein, and other global figures. There are also his paintings and a replica of the Nobel Prize he received in 1913.

What I liked the most was the “map of Rabindranath’s world travels.” At that time, he had travelled to more than thirty countries. The map shows his travel routes and timelines. Along with it, there are objects he used during his travels, his passport, and rare photographs with global leaders. It helps understand how Tagore saw himself as a “citizen of the world” and how that connects with the idea of Visva-Bharati.

As we came out, we saw a long queue in the courtyard. On asking, we were told it was for SIR.

Boi Para

“Boi” means book and “para” means locality. Boi Para—the locality of/for books. Its official name is College Street. This is not just India’s but Asia’s largest book market. You get college textbooks as well as rare books here.

In 1817, Hindu College (now Presidency University) was established here by Raja Rammohan Roy, David Hare, and others. The book market seems to have started around that time. Boi Para is about one and a half kilometres long, with hundreds of small and big bookshops. Wherever you look, there are books. Except Sunday, the market runs the whole day.

Within a short walking distance, there are many colleges and universities—Calcutta University, Hare School, Hindu School, Sanskrit College - to name a few. Institutions like the Bengal Theosophical Society and the Mahabodhi Society’s headquarters in India are also here. We also noticed the humour of students.

On  a yellow paper at the top on the right side of the viewer, there was a complaint about canteen food written in a funny way: “Don’t make canteen food too oily, USA might invade our campus.”

When you visit Boi Para, going to the Indian Coffee House is almost a tradition. You can't escape visiting it. 

This place is a historic centre of Bengali culture, politics, and literature. Since 1876, this space was known as Albert Hall. It was the main centre of the “Bharat Sabha” established by Surendranath Banerjee. In 1883, the first All India National Conference was held here. Many political meetings of Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose took place here. Writers, artists, and thinkers used to gather here for discussions. Personalities like Rabindranath Tagore, Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, Satyajit Ray, and Mrinal Sen were regular visitors. Kolkata’s famous “adda” culture developed here.

In 1942, the Coffee Board took this hall on rent and started a coffee house—this is the Indian Coffee House. 

While climbing the stairs, we saw paintings on the walls. Inside, there were high ceilings, old fans, and waiters in white uniforms. There are photographs of many such personalities inside. Luckily, it was not very crowded when we went, but we could not sit for long. We had coffee and left.

In this area, it felt like there is still space for organisations and people working on civil rights issues. We even saw preparations for a protest—complete with police vehicles—before the crowd had gathered.

Victoria Memorial

This is a very famous and grand monument in Kolkata. It was built between 1906 and 1921 in memory of Queen Victoria during British rule. The building is made of white marble, and its design shows a blend of British and Indian architecture. There is a large museum inside. I would have liked to visit it, but we did not have enough time, so we just walked around outside.

The memorial stands in a campus of about sixty-four acres. Around the main building, there are gardens, pathways, and water bodies. Walking near the water in the afternoon sun felt pleasant.

Often guides give us information, but it needs to be verified. Here, the guide told us two things. One—that water from the Ganga (Hooghly river) is directly brought into these water bodies through a system built by the British. Second—that even today the British government contributes to the maintenance cost of this monument.

When I checked both these points later, they turned out to be incorrect. There are six water bodies in the memorial area. The Hooghly river is about three kilometres away, and there is no system to bring river water directly here. The water bodies are mainly maintained through groundwater and rainwater recharge. After independence, this monument is fully under the Government of India’s Ministry of Culture. It is managed by an autonomous trust under the Governor of West Bengal. The British government does not provide any funds for its maintenance now.

I don’t know why the guide gave such incorrect information. Once I realised this, I found it difficult to trust the rest of what he said. Exaggeration is quite common in our society. 

Next time, I will definitely visit the museum inside.

St. Paul’s Cathedral

This is an important church built in the 19th century. Completed in 1847, it was the first Anglican cathedral in Asia. Since Kolkata was the capital during British rule, such a grand church must have been necessary.

This is an Indo-Gothic style building. In simple terms, Indo-Gothic means a mix of European architectural style and Indian needs. So the building looks tall, with pointed arches, large windows, and an impressive structure—features that come from Europe. But while building it in India, changes are made for the local climate—better ventilation, thicker walls, and a design that keeps the interior cool. So it looks foreign but functions locally—that is Indo-Gothic in simple words.

Inside, there are memorial plaques and information about some people from the British period. Some plaques mentioned other cathedrals, but I could not understand why. There was no one to ask. Photography was not allowed, so I could not even take pictures to check later. Since mobile phones are not allowed, the atmosphere inside is very quiet. Of course, this did not last long, as several busloads of school children arrived. So we left.

Kolkata Book Festival

The Kolkata Book Festival was very crowded. I got separated from my friends. Still, I walked alone through around twenty stalls. The enthusiasm of the sellers was impressive (very noticeable compared to the Pune Book Festival). There were a huge number of Bengali books; Hindi books were almost absent. The moment you picked up a book, a seller would come and start explaining it. Since my Bengali vocabulary is limited, I would wait for them to pause and say, “Ami Bangla jani na.” Then the conversation would continue in broken Hindi-English. They would show me English books. Despite saying no, I ended up buying some books—one in Bengali as well.

Interviews of writers and poets are fine at a book festival. But if there were no dance, music, speeches, and especially food stalls, the crowd would be less. And book lovers could browse in peace—that is what I felt once again. As usual, I know I am in the minority.

---

When I think about this one and a half days, it was not just about “seeing places.” It felt like a beginning of understanding Kolkata a little. On one side, there was the journey from Prantik to Howrah, the Hooghly ghat, and the experience of Saraswati Puja. On the other side, there were the lanes of old Kolkata, its houses, the legacy of thinkers, and the intellectual buzz of book streets. Everything seemed interconnected.

Here, history is not locked inside museums—it is alive in daily life, in festivals, and in people’s behaviour. Because of lack of time, many things were left out, some were only partially understood, and some raised new questions. Perhaps that itself is the real character of Kolkata.

247. A Visit to “BoShanKo”: Part 2 – Santiniketan

 ( ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.)

The moment one hears the name Santiniketan, the name Rabindranath Tagore immediately comes to mind. Open classrooms without walls, children sitting under trees, Gurudev, Visva-Bharati — a familiar picture appears before our eyes. We know this place as an educational and cultural pilgrimage centre, where education is not about examinations but about experience, and art is not something confined within rigid frames. A beautiful — and perhaps somewhat idealised — image of Santiniketan lives in our minds. At the same time, a quiet curiosity arises: does all this still exist as it once did, or has it changed?

If one visits Santiniketan merely as a tourist, a single day is enough for an ordinary person like me. Tagore’s house, a museum, the handicrafts market, a souvenir picked up from the weekly haat — and then it’s time to leave. While the identity of Santiniketan as a calm and beautiful place is true, it is also incomplete. Because Santiniketan is not a place that can be “finished” in one visit. Even today, it remains, in a way, a space that invites introspection.

Santiniketan is not merely a memory of Tagore; it is a vision and a philosophy he nurtured. His attempt to erase the boundaries between human beings, nature, education, art, and society can still be felt here. I was fortunate not to be in a hurry to see and leave like a tourist. I was able to stay with local people and, following their recommendations, do one carefully chosen activity each day. As I explored Santiniketan slowly, its many layers began to reveal themselves. Of course, I did not see everything, nor did I understand everything. But my introduction to Santiniketan had begun.

History

In 1863, Rabindranath Tagore’s father, Debendranath Tagore, established a small ashram on this open, arid land near Bolpur. Santiniketan — meaning “the abode of peace.” Debendranath purchased twenty acres of land from a landlord named Sinha. He chose this land as an ideal space for meditation, contemplation, and a peaceful life close to nature. The purpose of this purchase was to take the spiritual and social education of the Brahmo Samaj beyond conventional boundaries — to engage in dialogue with nature and to begin a “study of life” that lay outside the rigid frameworks of material education.

At that time, no one could have imagined that this quiet, somewhat isolated place would one day become a centre of global thought.

Rabindranath Tagore did not see this space merely as an ashram, but as a laboratory of education. In 1901, he established the Brahmacharya Ashram school here. The decision to move classrooms out from enclosed walls into the shade of trees was not merely educational — it was also political and cultural. It was an attempt to offer an alternative to colonial education, and to create a dialogue between Indian traditions and global ideas. Here, observation was valued over rote learning, coexistence over competition, and understanding over examinations.

In 1921, Visva-Bharati was established. “Yatra visvam bhavatyekanidam” — where the whole world becomes one nest — was not just its motto, but the guiding principle of life here. Students, artists, and thinkers from India and abroad began arriving. Santiniketan ceased to be one individual’s dream and became an intellectual and cultural movement built through collective effort.

Seeing the entire world as one home meant that education here was never limited to classroom knowledge alone. Seasons, festivals, art, nature, and human relationships — all became part of the learning process. Today, UNESCO has recognised Santiniketan as a World Heritage Site, but for local residents and students, it continues to be a place that “teaches one how to live.”

Today, Santiniketan is recognised as a distinct campus that forms the heart of Visva-Bharati University.

Viswa Bharati Campus Map

Santiniketan and Sriniketan together make up the vast campus of Visva-Bharati. Santiniketan houses departments of art, music, languages, and the humanities, while Sriniketan is known for experiments in rural reconstruction, agriculture, and social development. In that sense, Santiniketan is not merely a geographical space, but a way of life — and Visva-Bharati is its formal, institutional expression.

Heritage Walk

The Santiniketan Ashram Heritage Walk is conducted only on Sundays. Since we reached Bolpur on Saturday night, the Heritage Walk became our first activity.

Heritage Walk is little costly

According to the information leaflet, the walk includes Chhatimtala, Santiniketan Griha, Upasana Griha, Taladhwaj, Nutan Bari, Dehali, Santoshālaya, Ghantatala, Purba Toran, Paschim Toran, Singha Sadan, Patha Bhavana, Dinantika, Cheena Bhavana, and Hindi Bhavana. Except for one or two places, we managed to see almost all of them.

Anasua had already gone ahead and collected the tickets. Guides were available in three languages — Bengali, English, and Hindi. We joined another group and began the walk with a Hindi-speaking guide.

The tree known in Bengali as Chhatim refers to the Alstonia scholaris (devil tree). It was under two such trees that Debendranath Tagore meditated during his first visit in 1862 — which gives this place its significance. These trees could only be viewed from a distance, from beyond a fence. In fact, many places could only be observed from afar. Considering society’s obsession with selfies and the habit of carving one’s name on walls, this distance between tourists and heritage structures seems necessary.

Open classroom

Classes from the primary level onwards are conducted within the ashram campus. At many places, one sees large circular stone platforms around trees. These are vartulas — circular seating arrangements where students sit. One portion of the circle is slightly elevated; that is where the teacher sits. Even today, classes are held under the open sky, without walls.

Built in 1919 in the Buddhist architectural style, Ghantatala is still in daily use.

Path Bhavan

 This is the office building of Patha Bhavana. Established in 1901 with just five students, Patha Bhavana continues to provide primary and secondary education. The wall-less classrooms mentioned earlier are part of Patha Bhavana. The old building now functions as an office. I particularly liked the colour of this building, as well as its architectural style. Santiniketan reflects a fusion of many styles — whether in architecture or painting. There is a sense of simplicity combined with an extraordinary beauty that one still feels here. At first glance, it seems that Santiniketan has mastered the art of preserving what is good from the past while embracing the new.

There is an old banyan tree in the area. Lingering around it felt calming. A couple of small children were swinging on its aerial roots. On a nearby platform, boys and girls from Patha Bhavana were rehearsing a dance to the song “Ekla Cholo Re.” They were completely absorbed in their practice, utterly unconcerned about tourists watching them.

Nutan Bari (called Natun Bari in Bengali) was built in 1902 after the death of Mrinalini Devi, Rabindranath Tagore’s wife. Mahatma Gandhi and Kasturba Gandhi stayed here for some time. Santiniketan Griha is the oldest house in the campus; Mahatma Gandhi also stayed there. Rabindranath wrote many of his later-famous poems in this house — though I don’t know exactly which ones. In one of the buildings, I was able to see paintings by Nandalal Bose on the walls and ceiling. That was such a wonderful experience. The paintings felt so fresh and alive! I cannot put into words what I felt upon seeing them.

After wandering around the campus for two hours, we stepped outside, where there was a huge crowd. Amidst it, two musicians were completely immersed in their performance. Listening to them was also deeply pleasant.

Musicians

Republic Day Programme and Art Exhibitions

On the morning of January 26, we returned to the Visva-Bharati campus for the Republic Day programme. We arrived a bit late, so I could not figure out who the chief guest was. But that guest did not utter the words “Constitution” or “Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar” even once. This reminded me of the young father I had met on the train (my co-passenger), mentioned in an earlier post. There wasn’t a very large crowd at the programme either, and most of those present seemed to be schoolchildren.

On the way back, we stopped at a place for alu chop and tea. The earthen stove there was lovely.

Earthern Chulha

At this small square, there were three or four tea stalls. On one side, I noticed a statue of Dr. Ambedkar and went closer to admire it. A man from New Delhi had donated the statue in memory of his father. It felt good to see it.

Statue of Dr. Ambedkar

One day, we visited Rabindra Bhavana, built in 1942 after Rabindranath’s death. It is also known as the Tagore Museum. The museum is called Bichitra — meaning astonishing, diverse, beautiful, and more. It was established in 1961, during Rabindranath’s birth centenary. The museum houses a replica of Tagore’s Nobel Prize, his correspondence with figures like Einstein, Mahatma Gandhi, and Romain Rolland, and more than fifteen hundred of his paintings. Photography is not permitted inside.

As I walked through the museum, I noticed people from all social classes — poor, middle-class, and wealthy — observing the exhibits with devotion and engaging in thoughtful discussion. One repeatedly senses that Rabindranath Tagore remains a point of pride, identity, and deep emotional connection for Bengal even today.

Uttarayan consists of five houses — Konark, Shyamali, Udayan, Punashcha, and Udichi — each with a beautiful name. Rabindranath lived in these houses at different periods of his life. Shyamali is an earthen house.

"Udichi"

I was amazed by the various architectural experiments in these houses.

I had heard that small reproductions of Tagore’s paintings were available for purchase at the sales counter, but I found nothing. The familiar “government office” attitude was evident. The staff were inattentive, and my enthusiasm for buying anything faded away.

We visited an exhibition of Ajanta Mural Tracings by Ganesh Haloi.

Exhibition Poster

There was no one else there besides us. The lighting was so poor that the tracings were not clearly visible. The security guards, however, were enthusiastic and shared a lot of information. I later learned that Ganesh Haloi had worked in Ajanta for six years. His tracings are beautiful. I wondered how he managed to create them, but did not seek out the answer. I later learned that he has published a book on this subject — perhaps the details lie there, or must be sought elsewhere.

Most of us are familiar with Rabindranath Tagore’s name. But alongside him, three other painters played a crucial role in Santiniketan: Nandalal Bose, Ramkinkar Baij, and Benode Behari Mukherjee. An exhibition of works by Baij and Mukherjee was held in another gallery. Those paintings were also extraordinary — intensely alive. Benode Behari was blind in one eye and had limited vision in the other, yet his paintings are remarkably realistic. I kept wondering how he managed to paint this way. As the exhibition time was coming to an end, we had to leave. But the paintings alone were reason enough to return to Santiniketan.

On another morning, we visited a photo exhibition on the life and work of Ritwik Ghatak. It struck me then how few of his films I had actually seen. In another gallery, there was an exhibition of works by Krishna Reddy. I encountered a new form called “printmaker painting.” A young student from Santiniketan (who had also come to see the exhibition) tried to explain it to me in simple language, but most of it went over my head. The paintings, of course, were beautiful.

While viewing all these exhibitions in Santiniketan–Bolpur, I felt an overwhelming sadness at how little I understood about art. For someone like me, illiterate in the language of visual art, this was an entirely new universe — at once wondrous and deeply pleasing, yet also distant, maintaining a certain reserve.

Learning to understand the language of art is necessary. It is not merely a new script, but a new way of thinking, a new form of dialogue — opening up countless possibilities.

Does our everyday life contain both simplicity and beauty? How do we truly look at nature? Can we see what artists see? Do we have the commitment to art that its practice demands? Do we adequately understand what — and whom — we are truly connected to in this world?

Many such questions kept arising in my mind during this wandering. Santiniketan has certainly given me a new way of seeing. How long its spell will stay with me — only time will tell.

******

To North Kolkata in the next post. 

244. Wandering Around Kanyakumari

 (हा भाग मराठीमध्ये इथं वाचता येईल.) 

Part 2: Vivekanandapuram

Since I reached Kanyakumari in the afternoon, it didn’t make sense to rush to the "Rock" (Vivekananda Rock Memorial) right away. I could have gone, of course, but by the time I reached, there wouldn’t have been much time to linger. So I decided to spend the first day leisurely exploring Vivekanandapuram.

To my pleasant surprise, there was still hot water available for a bath even that afternoon. The next morning, however, the geyser refused to cooperate. When I went to the reception to leave my room key for repairs, I was told they didn’t keep keys. Carrying a room key while wandering all day always feels like a small burden to me — but so be it. The receptionist called the electrician, who promised to come “in five minutes.” But, as we all know, in India “five minutes” rarely means five minutes. After waiting for about fifteen, I gave up and boarded the bus heading towards the Rock.

While waiting for the bus, I met an elderly couple from Thrissur, Kerala. They told me they had been visiting Kanyakumari every year for the past several years. Over the next two days, we crossed paths a few more times — they were gentle, warm-hearted people. The lady was quiet; the gentleman, with a kind smile, would often let me move ahead in the queue or offer me coffee. My travels across the country have taught me one thing — whether in the north or south, east or west, Indian hospitality towards strangers remains genuine and alive.

Vivekanandapuram wasn’t particularly crowded. July is, after all, school and college season — not the peak of tourism. With that expectation, I went towards the Rock, only to discover how utterly wrong I was.

There were two separate queues — one for those who paid ₹100, and another for those who paid ₹300. The ticket included the ferry ride to and fro across the short stretch of sea. When I had come here in 2011, there was no such distinction. The entry fee was ₹50 then — the rise in prices is understandable, but two different lines?

At pilgrimage centers, temples, and tourist spots, it’s nothing new for the wealthy to pay extra for bypassing the queue. Yet, to encounter this sort of discrimination at memorials dedicated to Swami Vivekananda — who preached equality — and Thiruvalluvar — who spoke of the oneness of humankind — felt ironic, even disheartening. It said something about how deeply ingrained and normalized our social hypocrisy has become.

The ferry service is run by the Poompuhar Shipping Corporation, under the Tamil Nadu government. There’s also an online booking system, which I hadn’t known about earlier. Later, I found out that this dual-fee arrangement had only started recently — on 5 June 2025, to be exact. People love to save time, and many will pay extra to do so. Which means the ₹300 queue is here to stay.

Naturally, I joined the ₹100 line. If you ever wish to understand a country, stand for a while in one of its ordinary queues — they are windows into the nation’s soul. You see everything there — impatience, resourcefulness, small acts of kindness, and flashes of irritation. People were trying to move ahead even when the line didn’t; some slipped in extra family members midway. There were loud phone conversations, crying children, small quarrels, and a constant hum of noise. A miniature version of our overpopulated country, right there.

And yet, the moment the ferry started rocking on , all that external noise disappeared.  The cool breeze on my face, the rhythm of the sea — there is something mesmerizing about being out on the water. The Rock is barely 500 meters from shore, so the ferry ride was brief but refreshing.

The history and significance of the Rock Memorial are well known and well documented, so I won’t dwell on them here.

At the Rock, the crowd was immense. Every corner was filled with people posing for selfies and group photos. This, of course, has become the new normal everywhere — nothing can be seen anymore without people standing in front of it. Tourism today seems to mean: take photos, post them instantly, and move on.

I remembered the days when cameras weren’t allowed at the Rock. You could truly take in the experience then — the architecture, the silence, the sea. Once everyone began carrying mobile phones, that rule lost its relevance. Still, after visiting the main hall and the meditation chamber, I found a quiet corner. Watching the changing colors of the waves, feeling the wind’s steady force — that still remains as enchanting as ever.

Next, I crossed to the Thiruvalluvar statue. The Vivekananda Rock Memorial was inaugurated on 2 September 1970. Almost thirty years later, on 1 January 2000, the towering statue of Thiruvalluvar was unveiled beside it. The Rock entry ticket costs ₹30; there’s no separate fee for visiting the statue. Not long ago, both required separate ferry trips, but now a glass bridge connects the two — yet another attraction for tourists.

Thiruvalluvar the great Tamil poet-saint, is honored fittingly by this monument. And yet, when viewed together, the proportion feels  a bit off. The Vivekananda Mandapam rises about 55 feet, but next to it, the 133-foot Thiruvalluvar seems almost overpowering. Perhaps a slightly shorter figure would have preserved the balance — but our obsession with building “the tallest” remains unbroken. The height, they say, symbolizes the 133 chapters of Thirukkural, Thiruvalluvar’s timeless text.

Standing on the Rock, gazing at Thiruvalluvar’s statue — and then, from the statue, looking back at the Rock — was a very moving experience.

The return queue brought its own drama. A couple of people pushed their way in, sparking heated arguments. Behind me stood a group of Nepali schoolteachers who were visiting India during their holidays — they told me they had been to Maharashtra too. Ahead of me, a Telugu-speaking family from Solapur. We chatted lightly. Two hours in the queue went by almost unnoticed — the sea was company enough.

Later, I signed up for a half-day local tour organized by Ranade Tours & Travels. The fee was only ₹200.

The trip covered the Wax Museum, Tirupati Venkatachalapati Temple, Sai Baba Temple, the Brahma–Vishnu–Shiva temple at Suchindram, the Musical Fountain, and the Sunset Point. It wasn’t a particularly meaningful tour, since there was no guide to explain anything — the driver would simply stop, say, “Be back in thirty minutes,” and move on. I was reminded, once again, why I avoid such tours. Still, it gave me a basic overview of the area.

Some of the wax figures were beautifully crafted — I especially liked the one of M.S. Subbulakshmi. 

There was also an engaging section of “3D paintings” on the floor — if you stood in the right spot, it looked like a tiger was behind you, or an elephant was splashing you with water. A fun and clever display. The lady attendant mentioned that 3D painting is a traditional art form of Kerala.

The Tirupati Venkatachalapati Temple was grand and majestic, its architecture commanding. From its elevated platform, the view of the sea was breathtaking — I could have sat there for hours.

At the Sai Baba Temple, there was a long line. I noticed that most of the religious structures in this area stand on raised platforms. This temple too was clean and well-maintained. But, like many modern temples, it felt too shiny, too corporate — more like an office building than a spiritual space. Outside, a food court displayed menus in four languages, which felt inclusive and welcoming. 

It reminded me how easily cultural pride dissolves when economic interest takes precedence.

The Suchindram temple — also called Shuchindram — is truly magnificent. I had visited it earlier, so I remembered a bit. Without a guide, it’s hard to grasp its mythology. The temple’s name, Sthanumalayan, combines Sthanu (Shiva), Mala (Vishnu), and Ayan (Brahma).

According to the Brahmavaivarta Purana and Padma Purana, Indra once deceived Sage Gautama by taking his form and approaching his wife Ahalya. Cursed by the sage, Indra sought redemption here by worshipping the Trimurti. After regaining purity, he built this temple — hence the name Shuchindram, the place where Indra was purified.

Inside are the famous musical pillars that resonate with notes when struck — sa, re, ga, ma… Photography is not allowed inside the temple, but even from outside, the temple’s grandeur is evident. Its large sacred tank too was clean.

I have seen the sunrise at Kanyakumari many times, but this was my first opportunity  to view sunset from another beach. The beach was crowded, noisy, full of people shopping, snacking, and trying to capture the perfect view. The massive boulders and the enormous statue of Mary there took me by surprise. I told myself I must come back again, quietly, just to sit and watch.

All in all, the tour felt rather superficial. I realized that next time, I should plan better — and perhaps explore with a local guide. There is still so much left unseen.

Moving through these places, I felt anew that Kanyakumari is not just a pilgrimage site, nor just a place of nostalgic memories. It is a collage — of sculptures and wax figures, temples and seashores, meditation and music fountains. After the calm of Vivekanandapuram, the town revealed its vibrant, many-colored self.

Each visit, this old town shows me something new.

That is why I keep returning — not to see the same places again, nor to meet the same people, but to rediscover different versions of myself.

So even though I tell myself, “this is the last visit to Kanyakumari,” I know, deep down, that I might return once more.

The next and final part — soon.